


A Series of Dark Fantasy Tales

by breejah



Category: Original Work
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, Anal Sex, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dark Fantasy, F/F, F/M, FWUCollections, Hedonism, Horror, M/M, Multi, October Prompt Challenge, Oral Sex, Orgies, Rough Sex, Sex, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breejah/pseuds/breejah
Summary: A collection of short stories based off a daily prompt provided by the tumblr account 'downwithwritersblock.' (October 2018 Prompt Challenge)Will include sexual themes, dystopia, horror, and violence.





	1. Masks

* * *

 

_Day One - **Masks**_

_**** _

* * *

 

Staring at the item in front of her, she swallowed and looked up. “You’re sure he meant to leave this to me?”

“Yes,” the attorney said. “He left specific instructions in his will to gift you this item. All the information on the item is provided here,” his left pointer finger tapped the contents of the blank envelope he pushed towards her side of the table. “I was given instructions not to read these, only deliver the item and the enclosed instructions.”

Shayla swallowed, staring at the mask as it stared back. Unlike most masks, it had eyes - carved out of stone and closed, but it did little to unnerve her. “Why...why did he leave me a death mask?”

“No idea, Ms. Frank, I’m only the executor of the will,” the attorney replied, placing a document in front of her and settling a silver ball-tipped pen in front of her. “Sign here, please, so I can attest to the courts your item was received and I’ll leave you to review the instructions Mr. Sinclair left you with.”

Frantically, she wondered if she could refuse, her fingers reaching for the pen but pausing just short of grasping it and scrawling her name. The face of the man who left her five years ago - the face of her ex-lover, would-be husband - stared back at her, seemingly at peace. She had moved on, moved across the country, escaping the hurt and the pitiful glances of her friends and family when San Francisco's ‘Philanthropist of the Year’ couldn’t stand to marry his pet project from the college classes he’d paid for, the ones she’d been shoved into by her social worker, just a few years prior to that.

Now, he was suddenly dead - at the ripe old age of forty-two - leaving her a stone carving of his face at twenty-five. Her ears rang the longer she stared and before long, she realized the ringing was the sound of her name being spoken as a question, the attorney leaning forward in his seat.

“Ms. Frank? Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine,” she hastily whispered, grabbing the pen and scrawling her name, shoving the papers back at him. “What if I don’t want this? Want it. I mean…”

The attorney shrugged, glancing at the death mask, as he tucked the papers into his briefcase. “Burn it for all I care. It’s yours to do with as you will, Ms. Frank.”

“It’s Shayla,” she automatically replied, unable to tear her eyes away from the mask. She felt rather than saw the attorney rise from her kitchen table, briefly drawing in a breath.

“Shayla, then. Good luck in your future endeavors, Ms. Frank.” Before she knew what happened - she heard her front door open and close. He’d left her, sitting there at her kitchen table, with the mask of a face she knew she would never forget.

She reached out, ready to throw it across the room and shatter that marble into a thousand fragments, when the envelope caught her eye. Frowning, glancing at the mask once more, she turned and sighed, tearing open the casing to the letter inside.

_My dearest Shayla,_

_Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what occurred those five years ago. I can’t imagine the pain you felt, standing there, waiting for a man who would never come. Do you still think of me? They say wounds like that run deep - so I imagine you do, though not sweet thoughts. What would you say if I told you I left to spare you the pain? The pain of knowing the man you were to marry couldn’t provide you the children, home and comfort you craved?_

_I learned that day I had cancer. Terminal cancer, stage four liver disease, my very own death sentence. I was determined not to break your heart more than your family already had. The woman I loved couldn’t handle that kind of pain. So, I left - I left and I found something magnificent, darling._

_Put on the mask at midnight and I’ll show you want you so desperately wanted to know - where I am, what happened to me, why I waited so long to tell you._

_Promise me, Shayla. Promise me you’ll do it for us._

_Forever Yours,_

_Robert_

Shayla frowned, staring at the mask, reaching for it and turning it over. Sure enough, as she turned it over, she saw another engraving, this time one of her own face, carved to a likeness that would fit her face firmly. Swallowing, she shoved it away, standing so quickly her chair scraped against the floor.

Dropping the letter, she moved back towards her bedroom, shutting off the light. _So tired,_ she thought. _Rest is what I need._

When her head hit the pillow, all she dreamed about were masks.

* * *

 

Something creaked along her floorboards, jolting Shayla awake. She swallowed, her heart pounding once more, as she waited for the noise to repeat, reaching blindly for her lamp switch at the side of her bed. Eventually, the sound repeated itself and she sighed, hearing the rustle of strong winds slam the side of the house. Peering out the window, she noted the cloudy skies, cutting off the stars above, as a thunderstorm threatened to roll in.

Casting an eye towards the illuminated numbers of her alarm clock, she stilled as she read the display: 11:58pm.

Slowly, she turned her gaze towards the door that led to the kitchen, swallowing as she remembered the contents of the letter. _Put on the mask at midnight and I’ll show you want you so desperately wanted to know._

For a reason she couldn’t name if she tried - perhaps something as simple as curiosity, or as complex as obsession - she stood and moved into the kitchen, stiffening as she caught sight of the mask. Her eyes drifted to the numbers above the microwave, watching it switch to 11:59pm.

Frowning, reaching for the mask, she turned it, staring at the concave underbelly of the mask, seeing her own face. Turning it further, she ran her fingers over the face she had loved desperately, with her whole being once upon a time, then slowly back to where hers was. Noting the clock numbers rolled to 12:00am, she inhaled slowly, held her breath, then brought the mask to her face.

She didn’t hear herself hit the floor.

* * *

 

The phone was ringing. She stood, walking towards it, picking it up.

The clock read 12:01am.

“Hello?”

“Robert, darling. Are you there?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Yes.”

“Good, good,” the voice replied. “And the girl?”

She shrugged. “Gone. At least, I think so.”

“Be sure now, like we promised.” She hesitated again and the voice of the caller softly guided her. “Find it, let us know what you see.”

Setting the phone aside, she looked, brushing her fingers across the floor. When she felt the coldness of the marble under the table, she grabbed it and pulled it back. She smiled when she saw her face, carved pleasantly into the mask, in a state of sleeping resplendence. When she turned it over, she saw his face - what was once _her_ face - and carried it to the phone, picking it up.

“I found it.” She replied.

“And what do you see?” 

“Me,” she replied. “I see me.”

“Good,” the caller purred, “That’s very good Robert. We’ll see you in a week.”

“In a week,” she echoed, hanging up the phone, carrying the mask to her bedroom and sitting it on her boudoir. Brushing her lips against the mouth, she settled into bed.

“Goodnight, Shayla. Thank you for following my instructions,” She whispered, falling fast asleep.


	2. Mirrors

_Day Two - **Mirrors**_

* * *

 

“That’s perfect, keep going.”

Raul turned, shifting his camera as he leaned in close, watching the young thin African model lean in close to the mirror on set, staring at her reflection. “Good, good. Make an angry face. Be an amazon for the camera, girl. Yes! Perfect.”

_ Snap, whirl, snap, whirl _ \- he was ecstatic. Working with Jessina was always a load of fun, she always managed to know what he wanted just as he asked. She bared her teeth, leaning over the mirror, her reflection rippling back at her in equal anger, eyes clashing with eyes. He grinned, tipping back from where he stood, snapping at an angle to keep himself out of the frame from the reflection of the antique he’d purchased last week. 

Finally, a few clicks later, he was done, reaching up and placing the cap back on his camera. He smiled, helped her to her feet, looking oddly at the mirror as a crack he hadn’t noticed peeked at him from beyond the right corner of the frame.

“We good?” He heard her murmur from the snack stand, paper cup of water cradled between her fingers. He looked back her way, nodding, glancing back at the mirror with a frown as she reached for her coat, waving a subtle goodbye as she headed for the changing station.

He waved, distractedly studying the crack, brushing his finger over the edge to see how bad it was when his hand fell. Hissing, shocked at the sudden sting, he drew his hand back and noticed his blood welling around the jagged edge of the crack, making him grimace. “Fuck,” he whispered, sucking on his thumb and pressing a tissue he dug out of his pocket to wipe away the evidence.

“Claire?” He called, looking around the room for his assistant. He could hear her voice but it was further back, around the racks of clothes, and he sighed and went to pick up the mirror himself. He had paid too much for the piece and wanted it repaired before the next shoot scheduled at the end of the week. 

As he juggled it in his grasp, moving to set it on the dolly cart a few yards away, he felt something agonizing drag along his palm. “ _ Fuck!  _ What the hell…” 

He nearly dropped the frame, glancing down. Suddenly, he forgot to breathe. The crack was bigger, but worse - his blood dripped down the mirror in spades. He jerked his hand away when the frame crashed to the ground - the glass remaining intact, as he realized his hand was sliced open, the faintest impression of teeth marks along his inner wrist.

Swallowing, he looked down at the mirror, just about to take a step back, when he saw Jessina again - this time with no eye sockets, just black bottomless depths where her eyes should have been. He scrambled, tried to scream, but she punched on her side of the glass -  _ hard -  _ and her long nails and strong fingers snared his calf. Before he could blink, the pain was excruciating - shooting up his leg, taking on his torso, clawing up his shoulders. He didn’t realize until it was almost the end that she’d drug him through the mirror, blood and guts and all, jagged sharp edges of the mirror tearing his skin, his face, his throat - and then there was nothing but blackness and endless pain.

All that was left the next morning was the mirror and his camera, fallen to the floor, the lens shattered.


	3. Two Can Play That Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little personal and non-dark fantasy, but this is where the prompt took me. To all those with absentee parents like me, you ARE loved. Family is not defined by your blood but who is there for you throughout your life.

_Day Three - **Two Can Play at That Game**_

* * *

 

  _Dear Daddy,_

_Mom says you left. I’m sad, daddy. Why did you leave? Did I do something wrong?_

****

_Dear Daddy,_

_Today was my first day of school. It was scary. The kids are mean and I cried. Mommy said she was proud of me. When will you be back?_

****

_Dear Daddy,_

_Mommy got me a bike today. I fell riding it and it hurt and I cried. I also made a friend today. Her name is Amy. She is six like me. I love you, daddy._

_****_

_Dear Dad,_

_I started learning about math today and the stars. I think staring at the moon is cool. Did you know there was a man that walked on it? I want to be a man that walks on the moon. Amy’s parents moved a few houses down from us. It’s nice having her close. She’s my best friend. I miss you._

_****_

_Dad,_

_Mom and I are fighting. She is such a bitch sometimes, I can see why you hated her. Can't I come live with you? I hate my school, my life, my family, myself. I really need you right now? Why don't you ever write back? What's going on with you? Did you remarry? Do I have siblings? My new number is enclosed, I actually have a cell phone  lol. Call me? Please?_

_****_

_Dad,_

_Time flies, I guess. Must have lost my last note. Mom and I are cool now. I’m sixteen now and passed my driver’s ed classes and got my permit. Mom’s been freaking out about me taking the car but she says she’ll get over it. Grandpa bought me an old truck and it’s awesome. He’s been showing me how to fix it up, like you used to say you would do.   Oh, and yeah - Amy and I are dating. She’s the best. I really like her. You’d like her too, if you ever showed up._

_****_

_Dad,_

_Just graduated high school. Wow. I was valedictorian, can you believe it? Mom says I didn't get it from her. She told me you were an engineer. I was thinking of majoring in the same. Could I call you sometime? You never seen to answer so I guess the number I have is bad. The letters don't get returned so I assume you get them. It would have been nice seeing you there but I guess you're busy. Anyways, going to Penn State next year. Amy got in as well, so we'll start together. I think I might love her, Dad._

_****_

_You know, I told myself I wouldn’t write this, but I am. Amy and I are getting married in a week. I guess you lost the invite in the mail along with all my other letters. Mom’s ecstatic, Grandpa passed a few years back, and Amy’s dad died of cancer two years past, so it had me thinking of how lame it is you can't even bother to write your kid back. Don’t bother coming, pretty sure I hate you now. Hope your new life makes you fucking happy._

********

_Enclosed is a picture of your grandson. This is the last letter I will ever send to you. I wanted to thank you - thank you for teaching me so well on what not to do to raise a child. My son will never know the agony of an unresponsive parent and I suppose I owe you for that. I don't hate you because I don't know you. You never gave me that chance. Mom told me you called her, asked for us to have lunch. I declined and asked her not to share my info with you so don't take it out on her._

_Have a good rest of your life, Andrew._

 


	4. Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early as I am travelling tomorrow. Enjoy added creepiness in your evening.

_Day Four - **Ashes**_

* * *

 

Sam brought the large spoonful of lasagna towards his mouth, seeing his mother staring at him over her own dinner plate, her eyes like chips of glass in her stoic face. He grimaced, glaring at her, only biting down when she narrowed her eyes and barked at him to stop playing with his food.

He hesitated on the first chew, feeling a grittiness he didn’t expect. Forcing himself to swallow, he made a face and took a long sip of the water from the cup at his side. “What the hell, ma? This tastes like shit. Did you cook it with glass or somethin’?”

“Your brother always loved my food,” she snipped, muttering, chewing on her own food, shifting her gaze to look at the High School graduation photo that hung over the mantel like a damned altar.

“Yeah, well, he used to kiss your ass too, don’t mean I will,” Sam muttered, glaring at the figure of his angelic older brother - the family favorite - now six months in a cold vase by the photo in question.

“You shut your mouth, son!” His father shouted, reaching over to slap the back of Sam’s head. He hissed in pain, his fork falling from his grip, clattering across the table loudly when it raked across his plate. His father’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, making him bite back the retort on the tip of his tongue. “Your mother’s in pain from all this, can’t you see it? Apologize to your mother right now!”

Sam refused, pressing his lips together tightly. He might not talk back to his father, but he sure as hell was not about to act like Sean was the perfect little angel his family made him out to be. Sean was popular - so popular that when he knocked up Sue Ellen and his daddy took a shotgun to him when he dumped her upon learning she was pregnant, that the community was appalled at the girl he knocked up, not the fact that Sean was a piece of shit underneath that smarmy grin. It wasn’t any surprise, then, that two days after Sean’s death, Sue Ellen was found in the bathtub, both wrists slit. Then, suddenly, it was a fucking  _ tragedy  _ akin to some Romeo and Juliet shit, making Sam want to vomit. Boy meets girl, girl gets knocked up, daddy shoots him then girl offs herself - totally Shakespearean, right? He almost snorted right then if he wasn’t worried about his father’s glare, then the arm pulling back, getting ready to swing.

“John, stop. I’m...I’m going to bed,” his mother whispered, rising from the table before his father could beat him. She turned and glared at him, pointing at his food. “Eat the rest of your dinner.”

“Eat it, boy!” His father shouted, making Sam pick up his fork and shovel the rest in, just to stop having to listen to his father’s irate temper. He had band practice tomorrow and didn’t want the coach or the rest of the school giving him any more odd looks. It was enough that he already happened to be the “dead kid’s brother.” He didn’t want to be the beaten child, too.

Grimacing, choking down his dinner, ignoring the grit in his mouth, he slammed it down in record time and took a sip of his water before jerking out of his seat and storming for his room. His mother was already resting on her side of the bed in his parents room as he passed in the hallway, the TV glowing in the dark.

_ I hate them and this stupid town and I hate… _ he trailed off, seeing Sean’s room, storming inside when both his parents were nowhere in site.  _  ...and I hate you, Sean.  _ Reaching for the first object he could find, he gripped one of his brother’s baseball trophies and threw it on the ground, shattering it.

Suddenly, he coughed, feeling a strangeness in his throat. When the moment passed, infuriated, he grabbed another object and threw it down, too. Again, he couldn’t breathe - couldn’t see, couldn’t think - and nearly blacked out.

“The fuck?” He whispered, glancing at the mirror in his brother’s attached bathroom. Wandering over, he stared at his reflection, watching his face slowly distort, turning misshapen. Screaming, shoving a fist through the glass, he staggered back, hearing his dad on the other side of the door.

“Sam? What’re you doing in there? We told you to stay out of Sean’s room! Get out here now!”

He reached up, thinking he was hallucinating, running his fingers over his face, his heart pounding in his throat. Swallowing, shaking, praying it was just some strange shift of the light in the bathroom, he felt - searching,  _ searching… _

He screamed, stumbling back, his mind revolting against what he had found.  _ No! No!  _ **_No! This isn’t happening! What’s happening What’s…._ **

Suddenly, he blacked out, crashing to the floor, his dad’s pounding fading into the background.

* * *

He opened his eyes, struggling to understand why everything felt different, sounded different. He frowned, looking around, seeing himself sitting on the floor in his brother’s room. His mother came in, opening the door and smiling, peering down at him. “Why are you on the floor, silly jelly bean? It’s time to go to school.”

“The fuck, ma? Really? Today? The funeral for Sue Ellen was just yesterday. What’re you talking about?” 

His mother frowned, shaking her head. “Pardon? Sue’s waiting for you down the hall. She said you asked her to pick you up today?”

He sat up, shoving his mother away from him, panic lacing his thoughts, as he ran into the bathroom, ignoring her cries for him to help her, to return to her side. “Sean! Ow, Sean! What’s gotten into you?! What’s wrong?”

_ Everyone’s gone fucking crazy,  _  his thoughts slammed through his mind, making him shake his head. He remembered last night - after dinner, the bathroom, the mirror...

Inside the bathroom, he couldn't believe it. He stared, shaking, unable to understand why the mirror was back to normal and why his face -  _ his fucking face… _

“Why do I look like him, ma?  _ Why do I look like him?” _

“What on earth are you talking about?” His mother hissed, glaring at him from the bathroom. “And you shoved me! Sean Henry, there will be none of that going forward, do you understand? Your father will hear about this when he gets home….”

_ “Stop calling me Sean, ma! My name is Sam!”  _ He screamed, shoving forward, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. Nothing made sense, this was crazy! He was wearing his dead brother’s face. Why was he wearing his dead brother’s face?

Suddenly, his mother paled. She jerked away from him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare say that name to me, not now! Not today!”

“Why the hell not?” He barked, running a hand furiously through his hair. “It’s my name, isn’t it?” He heard his door open, a young woman calling out - he recognized the voice, it belonged to Sue Ellen. He didn’t want to see her, inching towards the bathroom, his eyes wild.

“No, Sean, it’s not. That was your brother’s name, remember?” His mother whispered, drawing closer, a frown tugging at her lips. He saw out of the corner of his eye the blonde beautiful Sue Ellen come into the room, her tummy just beginning to swell. His eyes went wide with shock. 

“Sean died ten years ago, baby,” his mother whispered, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Playing with a shotgun when you and your dad went hunting. You...you saw him die, honey. You were there, remember?”

“No, no I don’t remember…” He whispered hysterically, reaching for something - anything - to get them away.  This was a nightmare and he just had to wake up….

“Baby, did you take your pills today? You know what the doctor says when you don’t…” Sue Ellen frowned, staring at him with concern. He watched as she went to the medicine cabinet along the wall, withdrawing a prescription pill bottle, opening it and counting out the tablets inside. She frowned, showing his mother. His mother stilled, her eyes shifting towards him again.

“Sean, you haven’t been..”

“I’m not taking them!  _ I’m not taking them! They taste like ash! Like he did when you guys burned him! He’s on the mantle...wearing this face! Don’t!”  _ He screamed, shoving them away. Suddenly, he saw it, grabbing the razor and bringing it to his face.  _ If only I can get it off, then they’ll see! _

He watched as his mother and Sue Ellen stared at him in horror, rushing forward, seeing what he was about to do. He fought them off and he carved - carved as hard as he could - sagging as the blood came, smearing all over his face and clothes, until he couldn’t see, and then - only then - did he finally see his  _ own _ face again.

Smiling, he fell down in the tub, falling asleep, feeling the taste of ash in his mouth.  _ When I wake up, things will be better tomorrow… _

****


	5. Death

_Day Five -  “_ **_Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live” - Norman Cousins_ **

* * *

Mairie sat in the grass, staring at the creature resting in her loose fingers. She sighed, setting it aside, then gently tapped it on the beak once more, watching it jerk, blink, then fly away. It was her gift - and curse - to be able to cast out and recall life, never able to touch or feel in her short life. As she aged, began to grow breasts and form hips and learn the aching hollowness of desire, she knew then that she’d never know the touch of a naked lover inside herself, or the slow swell of a maturating babe within her. She used to rage, but now she felt nothing - as hollow and empty as the bird that had rested in her grip moments before. 

Over her shoulder, she heard her father calling her in the distance. He had been the only other one to know of her secret, to keep her protected - his own words - lest the world at large want to harm or study her. As the years passed and their relationship darkened from one of father and daughter to captor and prisoner, she wondered if he ruined what little joy she earned in her short, secluded life. She no longer felt joy or happiness, not even the remnants of pleasure when her fingers would rapidly bring her to orgasm in the dark seclusion of her room.

She was now Death.

Her father’s voice once more drew her attention at its sharpness. He was angry she wasn’t in the house. It was dinner time and she was told not to leave the house but couldn’t stick to his rules - not today. Not after her little discovery - that she was as dead as anything she touched and it was his doing. Standing, she looked down around her and frowned, noting the ring of dead dry grass at her ankles. Shifting her feet and wriggling her toes, she smiled as the lawn once more turned green.

Picking up her shoes, she walked back casually to the house. Her father’s shouting had grown worse and by the time she caught sight of him, he was furious. He stormed over to where she was, noting what her touch did as she walked.

“You know you’re not allowed out of the house! Not now, not _ever!_ ”

Mairie just ignored him, tired of his rules. He kept shouting at her - over and over and over - until finally she turned and pressed the sweetest kiss to his cheek. Almost immediately, he fell over, cold as death.

She snapped on the gloves she had been keeping in her pocket, slipping on her shoes once more when her feet touched dead soil, then whistled as she gently tugged her father into the hole by the garden she’d been working on. Casually covering him up with dirt, she moved back towards the house, climbing the stairs with vigor.

As she neared the kitchen, she smiled at the housekeeper, who also prepared dinner. “What’re you making today, Helen? It smells heavenly.”

“Roast and vegetables,” she replied, not even looking up from where she stirred the contents of a pot. “Where’s your father?”

“In the garden,” she replied without worry.

The housekeeper said nothing, simply serving her dinner. Mairie smiled and proceeded to eat with aplomb.

 


	6. Anonymous

__

_Day Six - **Anonymous**_

* * *

 

Staring out the window, Jon swallowed, feeling the pit of his stomach flex beneath the hollow sensation of fear. He didn’t have long, maybe years, days or even hours. He wish he could go outside, explore the word, find more friends or even perhaps kiss a girl. He wouldn’t know these things and suddenly it made him both panicked and sad.

Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled as Anna poured him a cup of tea, setting the steaming porcelain glass in front of him.

“One lump or two?” She asked, tilting her bright blue eyes his way. He forced a smile to his lips as she stared, proud at how even his voice sounded when he replied.

“Two, please,” he murmured, turning away from the window, the hollowness in his limbs aching as the curtain fell back, blocking his view. Anna smiled and plopped two cubes into his cup and he took a sip as she watched.

“You made this?” He asked. She nodded and smiled when he complimented her on the tea. She pressed a tea biscuit onto his plate and he obediently took a small bite, surprised at the taste. “This is very good, Anna.”

“Thank you,” she replied, pouring herself a cup. They stayed like that - him eating, her drinking, as they watched each other curiously. “What would you like to do today, Jon?” She asked him.

He paused, scalding his tongue as he took a quick sip of his tea, his eyes slowly looking towards the window once more. “Maybe go explore?” He asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. When he glanced back at her, he noted her frown and almost immediately regretted his words.

“Well….” she started, only to stop as he reached out and gently took her wrist, offering her a faint smile. When her eyes met his, her frown slowly edged towards a smile once more. He didn’t ever notice the breathing tubes or the sallowness of her skin - to him she was beautiful, his own reason for existence, an angel among mortals.

“Don’t fret, Anna. I’m sure you could regale me with one of your lovely stories. Have you been drawing again?” He kindly changed the subject, distraught that he tore her beautiful smile away from that perfect face in the first place with a willful request.

Anna smiled, her fingers brushing across the closed portfolio near the chair beside hers. He smiled, ignoring the siren’s call of the world beyond, trapped behind that curtain he could never go past, not with Anna here and so frail.

He was watched as she slowly took each drawing out, showing him the colors and shapes he so desperately wanted to see but couldn’t. His eyes filled with tears as he studied each one, like a starving man given a buffet to his deepest desire, only glancing up when he noticed her silence. She was smiling, watching him devour each print like it was the last thing he’d see and realized the gift she had brought him. She’d given him the world, one in which he so desperately wanted to be part of.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, reaching for her. She smiled as his fingers found hers, opening her mouth to thank him, when suddenly her eyes widened in panic and the coughing fit began. This one was worse than all the others and no matter how much he consoled her, she wouldn’t stop. He stood, shouting for help, hearing the nurses and doctors running down the hall.

Huddling in the corner of the room, he watched them work on her, over and over, but even with all their expertise and shiny medical equipment, he suddenly _knew._ Knew by the aching hollowness inside him that turned britttle and sharp that it was finally time.

His eyes shifted to the drawings she had made for him, finally starting to sob. She’d known how little time they had left and had given him one last gift - the world.

“I love you, Anna. I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, leaning against the wall as the doctors spoke her time of death out loud.

* * *

 

Looking up from the papers in front of him, Will Burbank tried not to cry once more as he read over the death certificate. He hadn’t been able to make the red eye last week and now, reading over his sister’s death proclamation, wished he had. All that haggle over those client meetings and now - now his sister was dead. He’d missed saying goodbye so he could win that _stupid_ architect contract…

Suddenly, he felt rage at himself, at his mismatched priorities, and nearly broke the panes glass box the doctors had brought out with the last of her belongings. As the doctor made his way into the room, handing Will a portfolio, he frowned and gave the doctor a questioning glance. “What’s this?”

“Your sister’s. It helped pass the time...and offered distraction,” the doctor supplied. Will blinked, glancing down and opening it. His eyes widened at the portraits of an unknown male and the world.

“Who is this?” He asked, thumbing through endless pictures.

The doctor leaned forward. “That is Jon. He…” the doctor smiled, scratching at his beard with an idle finger, “...was Anna’s imaginary friend of sorts. She used to say he wanted to travel the world. So she painted them for him.”

Will blinked, raising an eyebrow. It made sense - Anna was only twelve, having been diagnosed at eight with leukemia, but to think….?

Swallowing, he closed the portfolio and nodded, clearing his throat. “I see. She used to want to be a photojournalist when she was….before she was….”

The doctor smiled sympathetically when Will suddenly lost control, clapping a hand over his mouth to contain his sobs. “She had to invent a fucking imaginary friend because her own damn brother wouldn’t show up and be there for her. My god, I’m a horrible person, I…”

The doctor reached out, patting his shoulder. “Imaginary or not, he calmed her. It was a blessing. She died quickly and was smiling when it happened. Be happy, she’s in a better place now.”

“I guess,” he answered uncertainly, suddenly embarrassed. He thanked the doctor and hurriedly gathered up his things, heading out the door.

Briefly, as he walked past her room, he could have sworn he saw a man standing by the curtain. When he blinked, the man turned, offering him a sad smile. When he blinked again, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous made me think of imaginary friends. What happens when you stop believing or die? Food for thought.


	7. Lone Wolf

__

_Day Seven -_ **_Lone Wolf_ **

* * *

The wind felt sweet, the fresh kill between his teeth sweeter. He loped along the forest trail, scouting for the familiar den he had been using all summer when he smelled it - a blended floral note, unusual for this part of the mountains and too late into summer for such flowers to even exist at this time.

He dropped the creature from his jaw, letting out a low growl as he cantered forward, hoping to scare off the source.

A few feet away, he spotted the object in question - a woman, clad only in her undergarments, napping next to the hot spring near his den. He blinked, sniffing, curious to why she chose this spot. It wasn’t on the known hiking trails and it was hours - if not days - away from others.

Still, the more he stared, the more he found himself curious. Wandering back to his kill, he brought his muzzle down and licked, once more reminded he had food and a den a few short feet away. So what if there was a female nearby? Growling once more, he settled on the crushed dry leaves of the forest floor and quickly ate his dinner. No matter how tasty it was, though, he kept thinking of that woman by the spring.

Before too long, he felt his bones shift, his claws retract, and his body lengthen. His pelt became a faint dusting of dark hair on his limbs, chest, and groin and his eyes shifted from gold to green. Standing, he looked back the way he had just been, knowing she’d still be there, and found himself walking towards her.

He was surprised to see she was no longer asleep. She was bathing in the spring when he found her. She noticed him, blushing and quickly averting her eyes, but he knew she was keenly aware of his nakedness. He hadn’t worn clothes in decades, almost didn’t know how to talk, surprising himself as he slipped into the spring and spoke.

“Hello,” he said. That’s how it went, right? 

“Hello,” she murmured, keeping her eyes averted for the most part, but peaking at him briefly every few moments. “My name is Luna. What’s yours?”

He blinked, almost not remembering. His brow furrowed as he thought back to when he walked among humans, hearing her draw closer as he pondered. “Andre,” he finally supplied, seeing her stop a few feet away. His eyes lowered into the water, realizing she was also unclothed. He tended, arousal flooding him. This he was familiar with but again, he was unfamiliar how to properly seduce a human. He reached out with his hand, meaning to stroke her cheek, but hesitated when he noticed her recoil.

“You’re beautiful,” he commented, swimming closer. He was confused at the brief flicker of fear in her eyes. “I will not harm you,” he added, lowering his eyes once more. “Why did you chose this spring? There are others.”

“I’d heard about….” she hesitated, then stopped, surprising him when he swam closer and she didn’t retreat. The wolf in him bristled, aroused and ready to pounce on its prey. His cock throbbed to full awareness when her eyes lowered.

“About?” He prompted, within mere inches now. Her eyes raised, blue meeting his green, and he briefly felt an odd kinship with her - blonde hair, blue eyes, a ripe flushed mouth, a keen intelligence shifting in the milky smoothness of her face. She said nothing, and when he suddenly surrendered to the wolf and dragged her up against him, she merely let out a small gasp.

When his grip thrust her knees apart, she said nothing. When his hips brushed against hers, eager to be inside, she moaned. When he growled and shoved his way inside, she melted against him. He hastily swam to shore, taking her with him, eager to pound and fuck them both to completion and again, she didn’t object, didn’t say a single word - reduced only to joyful cries of abandonment.

Her body was like liquid fire, clasping his so tightly his body couldn’t help the first rapid climax. He groaned, mesmerized by her breasts, while his cock bucked inside her. She didn’t do the typical act of females and cry out in pain or shove him away and he quickly set another fast pace, still eager despite the slick steady deposit that already dripped between the two of them.

She took his hand then, causing him to slow, and pressed it against her opening, rubbing in quick circles. He watched, enthralled, as she encouraged him to thrust once more and when he did, barking at her to move her hand away so he could take over, he moved hard, fast, using his hand in tempo with his cock, feeling her channel flutter around his length as he moved. He’d never felt anything like it, groaning as he watched her gasps turn to mewls, then a series of soft hiccuping screams, her eyes half-closing, face growing flushed, when those flutters suddenly became hard, concentric bursts that gripped and tugged at him, shocking him in the ecstasy they brought.

He let go then, canting her hips just right while her channel milked him, rutting into her in a hard mindless fashion, her screams searing his senses until his cock - unable to stand more - exploded. His shouts joined her screams and he slowly sagged against her, feeling her legs curl about his hips, as his weight crushed her, cock buried in her, still kicking inside, coating her insides with his release.

They stayed like that for several minutes, only their breathing for sound. Lifting his head, he stared at her, suddenly wanting her more than anything he’d ever wanted before ever.

“You’ll stay with me,” he said, not phrasing it as a question. Her eyes opened, steadily met his own, then she smiled as they began to glow.

That shocked him more than the coupling. She was like him? He growled low, his own going golden, cock growing hard inside her, and watched her smile again, her canines lengthening as she squeezed around that sudden hardness. He hissed, watching her bear her neck, then howled softly, recognizing it for what it was.

_Packmate._

But first, they had more of other things to do before he took her back to his den - _their_ den. Angling his hips just right, he thrust forward, and she softly moaned once more.

 


	8. Stitches

_Day Seven - **Stitches**_

* * *

 

She woke up, realizing she couldn’t move. She tried to scream, but realized she couldn’t move her mouth. She jerked to move her hand, only unable to even summon the urge to do that. She was caught in a web, strung up in a series of string, unable to cry for help or call out her name. Someone must be listening, right? Someone must see the pain she’s in?

She tried to move once more and only rolled, falling off the ledge of where she was being held. Her screams were stitched shut, behind a mouth that wouldn’t move, and her limbs wouldn’t thrash despite her panic and racing heart. Eventually, she felt a crushing grip around her ribs - they’d found her again! They wouldn’t stop!

Unable to say nothing, she simply whimpered as her abusers lashed out, slamming her head into the ground until she almost lost consciousness. 

It last for hours. She was dying yet didn’t, she was tortured yet couldn’t cry out for help. 

Only when an older voice called out did it end. 

“Okay, sweetie, time for bed. Put up your dolls and wish them a good night.”

Once more they placed on that ledge like before, where she sat - waiting - for the next day to come where she once more wouldn’t be able to move or to scream. 

She could only twitch as the lights went out, rolling off the doll shelf one more time. 


	9. ‘It will kill you if you don’t say please’ | Go it Alone | Hesitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't so much dark fantasy as just a fucked up dark story. It's sort of a stream of consciousness this prompt led me on and well - hope you like, despite the twisted theme. Enjoy. Clearly, I'm feeling the dark themes being October and all.

_ _

_ Day Nine to Eleven -  _ **_‘It will kill you if you don’t say please’ | Go it Alone | Hesitation_ **

* * *

 

“Seriously, fucking stop it, you brat!” Timmy shouted, shoving at his younger brother as his mother reached out, snagging his collar with her nails.

“ _ Behave this instant, Timmy! You know better! Act your damn age!”  _ She hissed, thrusting a finger two inches from his nose. Timmy glared at his mother, shoving at Fred once more just for good measure, regardless of the harsh look of disapproval on his mother’s face. She let Fred get away with murder most days and he was  _ sick  _ of it. His little brother only laughed and started poking him again with the toy airplane in his hand as his mother once more raked him with a cold disgusted glare. 

“You’re yelling at  _ me?  _ When he’s the one making a damned scene? What the fuck, mom?” He started, gesturing at the ten year old at his side, rolling his eyes as his brother laughed again, the spiky metal ends of the wings digging into his side. “ _ He _ started it! Make him stop! Fred, seriously, I’m going to -  _ ow! _ ”

He almost turned and reached for his brother but his mom wrenched on his collar again, tugging him away. He seethed but calmed, hearing the announcement that Flight 382 was about to disembark.

“Freddy! Knock it off!  _ Both of you!  _ Your daddy’s about to come home from a very long tour and both of you should act grateful. I expect the best behavior, understood?” His mother hissed again, this time wrangling both their collars. His little brother had the audacity to look offended, pouting and crossing his arms as their mother scolded him. He felt immediate anger when he watched his mother gently stroke Fred’s cheek, sick and tired of being treated like the forgotten son next to the spoiled brat his brother had become. 

Fred knew it, too. He smiled up at their mother, blue eyes wide and innocent, but when they flicked towards him, he noted the brief flicker of glee when he saw his scowling face. Timmy tensed, ready to shove him again, when his mother’s grip turned painful, dragging his and his brother’s attention towards the gates. 

There, a hundred or so yards away, walked his dad. Timmy swallowed, staring at the dark shadows flickering across his expressionless face, his ruddy complexion - now a weathered combination of sun, wind burned skin, and weight loss making him appear utterly different than the father he remembered - making him fearful to approach him. His dad spotted them, his army fatigues and loping gait clearly labeling him as a recently returned veteran and Timmy wasn’t quite sure to make of this new creature that had taken his dad’s place. 

His mother gently shoved his shoulder, gently prodding him to move forward and greet his father. Timmy watched, already seeing Fred racing across the stretch of terminal that lead towards the gates the man had just exited from, and found himself staring as he slowly began to move his limbs to avoid more barbed commands from his mother. 

His dad looked...frightening. Like those boogeymen he read about in books and the occasional movie his mother would let him watch now that he was older. When he knelt down, scooping up Fred into a bear hug, a grin splitting across his face, Timmy had the odd sensation that he was simply mimicking the expression. Every motion his dad made seemed somehow cold and hollow. 

As he neared, he did the very same thing, forcing a smile he didn’t feel on lips that felt slightly numb. When his dad glanced his way, Timmy almost felt a shiver skirt up his spine as their eyes clashed and his dad’s gaze briefly flickered with some odd sense of awareness. 

“Hey dad,” he commented, ignoring Fred hanging off his dad like a damned monkey. His dad nodded at him, his eyes lowering over his form, making him bristle. He was a man now in some parts of the world, having just turned fourteen, looking older than his age - and knew his dad must have struggled with how he had changed since they last saw each other as well. He simply shrugged a shoulder, then pointed behind him. “Mom’s here.”

His dad’s eyes crinkled, looking warm for the first time since he had seen him come into the terminal, lifting to search for his mother’s face. Timmy stepped back just as he felt his mother dart by, the air around her moving like an unseen wind with her haste, plowing into his father as she sobbed and kissed his cheek. His father grinned, still holding his clinging younger brother, ripping his head to catch his mother’s mouth with his own. Feeling deeply uncomfortable, he looked away. 

“Tim, get my duffel, will ya?” He heard his father say. He nodded, reaching over and picking it up, hoisting the surprisingly heavy item onto his shoulders, if just for something to do. 

Watching his parents and brother embrace, he simply stood there, feeling unwelcome and out of place. He inwardly rolled his eyes - some things, no matter how long time passed, didn’t seem to change. 

 

* * *

 

Studying the raindrops that clung to the window, Timmy did his best to drown out the chattering voices of his family as he stared out the window. His father’s voice still seemed odd, slightly subdued and darker somehow, but the others didn’t seem to notice. His mother and little brother continued to stare and hang on every word he said as his father smoothly guided the car down the road towards their house at the edge of Atlanta, every so often flicking his gaze towards him in the rear view mirror. 

Each time he felt his eyes on him, he turned his head, startled to see his father staring at him -- each time feeling unnerved at that unnaturally keen stare. He felt stripped, emotionally and physically, and he hastily hid his discomfort by glancing out the window once more.

“You’re quiet, son. How’s school?” His father suddenly asked, once his gaze was elsewhere. Timmy shrugged, forcing himself to appear bored.  _ Why do you suddenly care? Think I didn’t notice you wrote mom and Fred and not me? Is it because of what happened before your last tour? In the garage? _

“Fine, I suppose,” he replied with feigned nonchalance, keeping his tone bored. “Same as usual.”

“Timmy got written up for punching another kid at school!” Fred quickly offered, making him grit his teeth. He didn’t miss the little gleam in Fred’s eye as he announced that revelation in the car, bouncing slightly in his seat when a silence sliced through the air like a knife.

He tensed, saying nothing, keeping his eyes focused out the window. As much as his family liked to pretend they were normal, he knew better. He’d seen better with the kids at school, as their parents came to the pep rallies, parent teacher conferences, and dropped their kids off at school dances. His family? Dad overseas, obsessively joining tour after tour, trying to satisfy some adrenaline urge or some other darker tendencies only Timmy seemed to sense. Mother stayed home, attended Fred’s things, or spent the other times drunk or doped up on Xanax pills. -- the American fucking dream, right?

He felt so fucked up.

“Oh? That so, Tim?” His dad’s voice interrupted his inner rancor. Glancing up, Timmy briefly noted his mother going still as he looked back towards the rear view mirror, seeing his dad staring back at him. There was no sense in denying it - no matter what he said, his father would preach that it could have been avoided, that he should have been the ‘better man.’ Never mind this was coming from a man who killed people for a living - his dad was a long-range sniper.

“Yep,” he commented, glancing back outside, eager to avoid that eerie stare. He didn’t add the part that the boy in question he had punched was trying to stick his hands up a girl at school - Jenny’s - skirt. She’d thanked him later with his very first kiss and he still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He liked her well enough but the kiss had bothered him. It felt wrong - it bothered him when she seemed upset he told her she didn’t have to do that again unless she wanted to. She hadn’t talked to him since.

“You get in trouble?” His father asked. Timmy shrugged, choosing not to respond. The car fell silent once more and for once, his father seemed willing to drop the subject. 

The rest of the long, uncomfortable drive home was completed in utter silence.

* * *

Once they finally arrived home, Timmy busied himself with hauling his father’s things into the house. It kept him from wanting to roll his eyes as he watched his brother and mother soak up every word his father said about his exploits overseas. As he moved between the house and the car, he secretly envied the ease in how they openly displayed their love. 

He had been born when his parents were in High School. His dad had knocked his mother up their senior year and had promptly enrolled in the Army to support his burgeoning family and Timmy had endured the hard years - the fights and moves - something his brother didn’t have to experience. That was part of why he felt his parents showered his younger brother with attention - the kid that had been  _ planned.  _

Setting the last bag beside his parent’s bed, Timmy exited and saw his mother move towards the kitchen to start prepping dinner. Moving towards the stairs, hoping to escape from the nauseating “happy family” scene in the living room, he paused when he heard his father call his name from down the hall. 

“Tim, come here.” The tone was seemingly gentle, but Timmy knew it wasn’t meant to be refused. Groaning faintly, he moved towards the living room, wiping the sourness off his face as he rounded the corner. His brother looked up from where he sat next to his dad, another one of his signature pouts threatening to cloud his face. His dad glanced at him before smiling at Fred, ruffling his hair and pointing to a chair. Timmy moved towards it, settling in, watching the display with barely suppressed annoyance. 

“Freddy, go help your mother. I’d like to talk to your brother for a bit, if you don’t mind,” his father commented, briefly studying Timmy with those odd dark eyes of his. Fred stiffened, beginning to protest, but one look from his father had the whine immediately dying in his throat. 

“Go on,” his father nudged the boy, ruffling his hair again with a faint smile that managed to reach his eyes. “I’ll be in there soon.”

Timmy tensed as his brother smiled back and nodded. He waited for his brother to leave, watching as his father’s eyes lost that brief flicker of emotion as they both trailed his brother’s movements into the other room. When his dad finally looked back his way, looking over his form once more, it took considerable effort not to flinch at that obvious hollowness he saw once more. 

“You look good. Old,” his father smiled faintly, but away from the others they both knew it was merely an act. 

“You look dead,” he commented back, leaving out any wariness and revulsion in his voice. His dad nodded, wiping a hand over his face. “How many this time?” He asked. They both knew what he referred to. 

“Thirty-eight. Almost time,” his dad commented, staring at him with an odd look on his face. “You still have it?”

“Yep,” he commented. His eyes briefly looked towards the kitchen. “Why? You mean tonight? You want to tonight?”

“Yeah,” his father commented, slowly rising. “Let’s go to the garage.”

Timmy swallowed, fear seizing his gut, but he stood, keeping that all too-familiar mask in place, following his dad outside.

 

* * *

 

Inside the garage, it was dark. He found what his dad wanted -- the hand grip dirty, clip half full, hidden away behind the row of coffee tins his father used to organize the various objects collected from their earlier home projects; nails, bolts, screws and spark plugs and loose bulbs for the cars.

“Not sure this is a good idea,” Timmy said, frowning as he watched his father review the pistol in his hand. His eyes lifted from his work to check over the piece, catching Timmy’s hesitation, making him smile - this time an altogether different note of expression in his eyes -  _ happiness. _ His dad was only happy doing this ritual he’d thrust on Timmy once he discovered his little secret and it made him sick.He wished to be his brother or mother then - blissfully ignorant and unaware - but he wasn’t. He hated his life then - almost as much as he hated his father.

“Why not? You chickening out on me, boy?” His father’s voice was raspy, excited, and - what made his stomach especially turn in disgust - aroused.

“No,” he hastily replied, grabbing the keys by the door. “Not at all, Sir. Just saying that usually you can last a few days more than this. When was the last time?”

“Three weeks ago,” his father gruffly replied, moving to the small motorcycle and sidecar that sat unused on the other side of the garage, thrusting a helmet in Timmy’s direction. Timmy slid it on his head, watching his dad slide into the sidecar, still busy adjusting that gun in his grip, then revved the engine.

They heard the back door slam against its hinges and his father cast him a dark glare before plastering a smile on his face. His mother rounded the corner, looking startled and saddened at the sight of them pulling out of the garage.

“You want a ride now? Can’t it wait until after dinner?” She asked, her eyes sliding between him and his father. 

“We’ll be back in no time, darling,” crooned his father - ever the charming pretender. “Go on and finish supper now, just teaching Timmy a few more tricks on the ‘cycle. Promise we’ll be back soon, babe.”

His mother said nothing, just stepping out of the way, and Timmy followed his father’s commands to steer them towards the street. He watched his mother frown, hands crossed at her hips, as her figure shrank in the rearview mirror behind them. Pretty soon, they rounded the hill at the end of the road by the main highway and trees covered her disapproval from his mirror. He shifted his eyes to the road, his gut growing heavy - cold - and he gunned the gas pedal at his father’s urge.

* * *

_ This has to end, _ he thought, staring across the street to the house his father required him to drive to once a tour ended, just usually not so soon.  _ I can’t keep watching this. _

Not too many minutes later, his father stomped out of the house in question, jerking his trousers back in place - a young woman, perhaps no younger than eighteen, storming out after him. His father looked annoyed, shoving some bills her way, then moved towards him and the motorcycle. The girl said something - the wrong thing - and Timmy tensed as he saw that gleam enter his father’s eyes.

His stomach dropped and he tried shouting at his father --  _ please, no, don’t, not today, not this girl, she looks so much like Jenny _ \-- but his father wasn’t hearing him, drawing the gun before he could vocalize what he wanted to say, thrusting the barrel in her face and firing the pin.

Timmy could just stare, watching the girl’s brains splatter the sidewalk. His father moved then, with that casual lethal grace, then barked at Timmy to drive. Too shocked to say anything else, he did.

His father leaned back, a smile tugging at his lips, eyes closed, as his head canted towards the sky. Timmy stared, shocked and disgusted at the utter  _ joy  _ on the man’s face. Suddenly gritting his teeth, he gunned the engine, noting his father frown and jolt to a sitting position with a frown.

“Slow down, Tim. We don’t need a damned cop noticing.”

“Noticing what, dad? That you fucking shot that girl? In the fucking head? Like she was a damned animal? You told me the last time that you would keep it to animals! Not girls! Not again!” He shouted. God, he was going to be sick, feeling his eyes sting as he sped faster and faster - watching traffic begin to blur around them.

“Son,” his father warned, raising the pistol towards him, making Timmy laugh. He kept laughing - finding the situation hysterical, come full circle, almost praying his father would pull the trigger.  _ Wouldn’t that be great? Karma and justice, packing a double dose of reality to us both. We’re fucked - so fucked - I can’t let this keep happening…. _

As much as he hated his little brother, his mother - he pitied that girl, the man he allowed his father to shape him into - and decided he’d had enough.

He heard his father’s shouts, heard the cocking of his gun, felt the sting in his shoulder, the agonizing pain - but it never registered, not once, not comparing to the utter euphoria he felt as he finally felt  _ free _ \- steering them off that curving cliff they drove past each time towards their house.

As they fell, he opened his arms, wishing he could take flight, like the angel Gabriel, whooshing down to shove a blade of justice through his father’s throat. He heard his father’s screams just as they hit the rocks below and as he lost consciousness, he smiled.


	10. ‘Everything buried gets dug up eventually’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note for this chapter: Consider this complete for now, despite the cliffhanger ending. I'll try and re-initiate this when October comes around again. For now, considering this prompt exercise complete.

__

 

_Day Twelve and Thirteen -  ' **Ever**_ **_**y** thing buried gets dug up eventually’_ **

* * *

_**[Part One of 'The Doll Maker']** _

Something wasn’t quite right.

Edmund frowned, peering over the edge of his spectacles to study the workshop, not spotting a single thing out of place, yet couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. His eyes took in every work surface present - the tables with clean workspace and organized drawers of various crafter and repair tools, the walls with various rolls of fabric and ribbon, the drawers of various hair types - both artificial and real - used to craft his masterpieces. Everything was normal, mundane, and as it should be. Still, the sensation wouldn’t leave him and he began to wonder if he was merely imagining it. His sleep had been troubling as of late and he wouldn’t put it past himself to be simply be evoking some concern about something that really just wasn’t there.

That had been his struggle these past five years, as he neared that dreaded word that he could hardly muster to think about - _retirement._ It terrified him, thinking of himself sitting at home with nothing to do, no one to speak to, no one to share his imaginative and still-strong mind with. His bones and body might be weak, but his mind was still as tenuous as it was when he was younger. It slightly unnerved him as he had aged, how you could feel so different outwardly and yet the same inside. He idly wondered if this was his version of hell - to have a whipcord brilliance sheltered under a brittle and fragile body. Customers would laugh, telling him that was simply aging, but it terrified him and angered him when they brushed off his comment.

He had never married - too invested in his life’s work to bother with the idea - and now, at seventy-two, he was beginning to feel the isolating sensation of being utterly alone. He had no family, no real friends, and when he was gone he felt like the word _retirement_ would mean that he simply ceased to exist to the world at large. He had known over the past few years that he wanted to matter to _someone_ before he died. That was why he did what he did - created and restored children’s dolls, so that when he was gone at least some part of himself would always remain to remind the world and others that he _had been here_ , he was _someone._

Still, it didn’t ease the anxious feeling in his gut he longer his thoughts lingered on that word rather than the work he was fidgeting with in front of him.

Struggling to understand the odd sensation, he settled into the same chair he had been using the past fifty-four years of his life, wincing as his old joints strained slightly with the movement. Hearing the sound of the little hanging bell by the door go off, he began to rise again when a warm hand gently pressed him back down, the soothing young voice of his assistant catching his ear.

“Good morning, Mr. Hutchinson,” Ebony smiled, setting a steaming cup of coffee within arms reach. Edmund attempted to look unbothered but his grip reached out quickly - inwardly ashamed of the way his hands shook, another token of the ‘wondrous’ thing that was old-age - grabbing hold of the cup and taking a tentative sip. As usual, it was absolutely perfect, something he still didn’t understand how Ebony knew how to do. The nearest coffee shop was six blocks away.

“Morning,” he grunted, watching as Ebony smiled and settled beside him, setting a croissant on a napkin in front of him. He also took that with perhaps a little more relish than was considered polite but as he’d gotten older, trips to the store were a struggle and his assistant had begun to supply most of their meals with the office money he left by the windowsill. She never complained, never made mention of all the little extras she did around the shop while he taught her his craft, and each day he was begrudgingly beginning to admit to himself that he liked her.

She had tamed her wild corkscrew curls today, making a smile he didn’t want creep over his lips. She was a pretty thing - much like a doll herself - with golden skin and wild maghony hair, from her mother’s Haitian heritage. He would find himself being gentle and complementary, so unlike his usual gruff self, when she would mutter how she hated being mixed. Her father had been white - died when she was fourteen - leaving her and her mother with little money.

His generation just simply didn’t allow women apprentices, but her story had moved him, and he had offered her a job after she eventually proved to him - to his embarrassment - that she was just as motivated as he was, despite her background, race, and gender. She’d seen through his immediate hostility and her sheer perseverance had him offering her the job just to give her something to do each time she swung by the shop. After a year of working together, they had a routine and idly, he realized she only had six months left before she would move on to her next station.

The thought troubled him.

As she settled, tugging the gloves he required she wear into place - for the work they did on the dolls they repaired could easily damage with body oils - he gave her a once-over as he watched her set up her station to work. “How’s the new search going?”

Her search was her next apprenticeship. She shrugged, glancing his way as she delicately unwrapped their latest repair job - an antique Armand Marseille doll - and threaded the string through her needles to complete the body composition repair. Yesterday, he’d instructed her out to stuff them and today it was the final touches. “It’s going, but I haven’t found anything yet. Why?”

He shrugged, then showed her out to sew the doll properly, taking longer than he used to remember, his fingers not cooperating with his hands. He frowned and then let her take over, simply instructing by talking, nodding when she finally had it right.

“Just curious,” he muttered, when he caught her smile.

“You know,” she continued on as she worked, briefly glancing his way, “I could stay. That is, if you’d like me to.”

Edmund frowned, not wanting to be a burden, but more excited than he dared let on at the offer she dangled between the two of them. He kept his eyes trained on her needlework, grunting at her to continue as she had paused in her movements. He felt her amusement rather than saw it as she began to move her fingers again.

“How so?” He finally asked, annoyed at the weathered eagerness in his voice. He had hoped she would offer to stay, run the shop for him, allow him to continue to work in some capacity, but he had been teased by the idea before and couldn’t bear the crushing sensation of disappointment again.

“Working for you - permanently. Would that be an option, Mr. Hutchinson?” She asked, tilting her head his way, forcing him to push up the spectacles on his nose and meet her eye to eye - his clouded blue clashing with her young brown. He frowned again and watched her facial expression shift from hope to slightly crestfallen, so he forced himself to utter the words he hoped didn’t show his excitement.

“Well, now, I wouldn’t necessarily say no, but I’ve got a way of things I like ran here. If you could manage them, I might…” He started, stopping when  she bounced up in her seat, her eyes wide, a soft pleased smile pulling at her face.

“Yes, sir! Yes, please, yes,” she murmured. He couldn’t hold back the smile that tugged at his lips if he wanted to - but he simply responded with a nod.

“Very well. Now, to finish, you do this…”

Hastily, he steered towards a conversation he was more comfortable with -- one of dolls. She looked down, following his every word, and Edmund felt something he hadn’t dared feel in years -- _hope_.


End file.
